


Where There's Warmth

by pamdizzle



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Could be love at first sight, Fanart, Featuring 1920s underwear, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Hopeful Ending, Lust at First Sight, M/M, PWP, Prohibition, Seduction, era-typical language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 18:37:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16124390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: A 1920s AU where Jim is still a cop, and Oswald is a suspect he's attempting to investigate. Jim follows a trail of breadcrumbs to a purple door in an alley, and gets far more than he bargained for. Inspired by Fanart, which is included in the text. :)Alternative summary: I'm not saying I wrote almost 5k words of 20s au just so I could write porn based on 1920s mens underwear fanart by DeathbyOTPin123 which was linked to me by LadySpock7...actually, yes, that is exactly what happened. I hope you like it!





	Where There's Warmth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyspock7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyspock7/gifts), [deathbyOTPin123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathbyOTPin123/gifts).



Jim slips into the shadows of an alley that borders a popular club, the boisterous sounds from inside muted somewhat through the windowless, brick walls. He checks the address on the slip of paper in his pocket one more time, wants to be sure this is the place. He’s been following a trail of bodies, all tied to the illegal liquor trade in the city, with no leads up until yesterday.

He bagged a couple of muggs1 supposedly running scared from a big-shot bootleg supplier in the city. They’d tried to pull a heist, hijack a truck of moonshine headed into Gotham up from Tennessee. Apparently, their efforts didn’t pan out so well, agreed to inform on the guy in exchange for protection.

“They call him Penguin,” they’d told him. “Some upstage gimp with more kale than a bank vault2.”   

He’s no Revenuer3, feels like prohibition causes more trouble than it saves, but if this guy is dropping bodies, Jim’s more than happy to bring him down. Though, he wishes he weren’t on his own for this one. Harvey is laid up from a gunshot wound he’d taken in the leg a few weeks back and Jim isn’t yet certain which cops he can trust—Too many of them wrapped up in blackmail with organized crime.

As promised, there’s a door on the left just before the dead end, painted a deep purple that almost looks black in the darkened alley. Jim checks over his shoulder before he reaches out and gives the knob a shake. It isn’t locked, and that sets off the warning bells in his head. This could easily be a setup, and Jim the chump that fell for it. Still, it’s a lot of work to go through just to lure him to his death; there are easier ways to bump off a nobody cop.

Decision made, he slowly opens the door, gun drawn in preparation for whatever stands to greet him on the other side. It’s an empty hallway, shadowed by a light that burns and flickers at its end. Quietly, Jim pulls the door shut behind him, presses his back to the wall with his gun pointed toward the ceiling as he slowly pushes forward. The light turns out to be a roaring hearth, its full blaze obscured by an expensive green, sitting chair occupied by a man dressed in nothing but an open bathrobe, short leg underwear and black leather slippers.

“Care for a drink?” he asks flippantly, hand gesturing to a small table that holds a bottle of Old No. 7 and an assortment of tumblers.

“You the Penguin?” Jim replies, ignoring the man’s offer.

“Oswald,” he replies, casually pouring himself a drink as if Jim weren’t there at all, gun held at the ready. “And what should I call you in return?”

  “Detective Gordon,” he answers roughly, “of the GCPD. I’m investigating a series of murders; rumor has it a man with a pronounced limp is running liquor into the city and dropping his competition into the river.”

 “I didn’t know the police department was in the business of investigating paltry gossip,” Oswald returns, crossing back to retake his seat. “Seems like a gross misuse of local resources.”

Jim holsters his weapon and closes the distance between them, looms threateningly over the chair as Oswald casually sips his drink. “I’m not some dumb mark! I know you sent those rubes4 to the station to speak to me, specifically. Left your door open so I could walk right in, sure as hell didn’t look surprised when I did just that. So why don’t you cut the crap, and tell me what it is you want?”

Oswald narrows his eyes. “You are keen5,” he says, eyes roving Jim’s body as he tauntingly shakes his glass. “Sure you don’t want a sip?”

“Enough.” Jim shakes his head and, for lack of a better rejoinder, states, “I don’t drink.”

“How upstanding of you,” Oswald comments drily. He tilts his head and crosses his legs, then runs a slippered foot up along Jim’s shin. “Maybe you’ve a taste for something slightly more illicit?”

Jim swallows, his eyes sweep over Oswald’s form without his express intention, face heating when he catches himself. He takes a step back, puts some distance between them, his every move watched carefully by those assessing eyes.

“You know,” Oswald says, “it was illegal for two men to seek comfort in each other’s arms not all that long ago. Tell me, Detective Gordon, is your adherence to that shiny button6 of yours so rigid that you view all laws as created equal? There’s nothing about any of them that strike you as frivolous?”

Jim sighs. “I took an oath to uphold the law, regardless of how I feel about it personally.”  

“And how do you feel about men, personally?” Oswald asks, grinning cheekily.

“That’s none of your—”

Oswald uncrosses his legs, lets them fall open as he shrugs his robe down around his shoulders. Jim’s eyes are drawn like a magnet, right to the bulge of cock beneath the man’s underwear. It’s an obvious distraction, one Jim can’t fathom having broadcasted he would be susceptible to, but Oswald is either psychic or remarkably perceptive. Jim’s never told anyone about his attraction to other men, never been called a faggot7 a day in his life, and this stranger’s blatant assumption has him shaken.

Jim forces himself to avert his eyes as Oswald asks, “How long’s it been?”

“Never, with a…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, clamps his jaw tightly shut as he works to regain his footing. Jim isn’t sure how they managed to veer so off course, needs to return the focus to the case, but Oswald pops the top button of his underwear and it’s suddenly far too warm, the heat from the fireplace too intense.

“Never?” Oswald repeats, all whispered astonishment. “But surely you must have wanted to…”

Jim feels caged suddenly, utterly beyond his depth, nodding mutely in silent confession. He looks, unobtrusively, time and again, and wants frequently but he’s never acted on the desire. The consequences for misjudging a man not of the same mind can be brutal, these things still considered deviant by most. Gotham is fairly liberal, but there are certain corners and especially in public service, where outdated thinking still prevails.  Jim doesn’t want to be ostracized, his personal life thrust into common knowledge, compromising the respect he’s worked hard to earn within the department.

“You should put some clothes on,” Jim reproaches.

“No need to be cruel,” Oswald chastises, visibly wilting somewhat, and it shouldn’t bother him. The man is probably a murderer, but Jim feels guilt claw at his stomach nonetheless as Oswald reaches for the lapels of his robe.

“Sorry,” he apologizes softly. “It’s just…hard to concentrate with... You—you’re very…” Jim shrugs, sighs. “If circumstances were different—”

“If that’s true,” Oswald interjects, “then kiss me. Just once? So I can feel a little less foolish for trying so hard.” Oswald lowers his eyes, then, sheepish as he ties his robe. “Then we can talk about my reasons for bringing you here.”

Jim bites the inside of his lip, considering. It’s just a kiss, and even if Oswald is running liquor, ordering hits, Jim can respect his bravery in this at least. Besides, it is true. If they were anyone else, and Oswald offered, Jim would accept without hesitation. The man is well spoken, possesses a sharp wit that speaks to his intelligence and while his alias suggests a waddling misfit, Jim finds his avian features uniquely beautiful.

Objectively speaking, Jim wants him. Kissing him would be unprofessional, but it’s also the least unprofessional thing he’s been asked to do since joining the GCPD six months ago. He takes a step toward the chair.

Oswald’s head snaps up from its dejected bow, continues to unfold, spine straightening as Jim comes to stand before him. Oswald reaches out when he comes to a stop, tugs playfully at the hem of Jim’s navy-blue suit jacket, tiny smile gracing his lips.

“Do you mind?” He asks, gesturing to the floor. “It’s been a long day, and my brief trek across the room has strained my injury.”

Jim’s eyes fall to the bared, twisted flesh of Oswald’s ankle. He wonders how it happened but knows better than to ask. Instead, he slowly kneels, breaths shallow as Oswald scoots forward to bracket him with his knees. Jim dithers for a moment, hands hovering uncertainly as he tries to figure out where to put them. He’s saved from his awkward fumbling when Oswald shifts even closer, his thighs on either side of Jim’s hips so that the only place for his hands are at the man’s waist.

“Oh…” Jim gasps at the first touch of his fingers against the thin cotton covering what is clearly a male body beneath. There’s no curve to his hips, though they are decidedly wider than that of the few women Jim’s been intimate with in the past. Despite his angular appearance, the sharp cut of his bone structure, Oswald is surprisingly soft to the touch.

“How about that kiss, Detective Gordon?” Oswald teases, voice just above a whisper.

Jim blinks, focuses on cold, blue eyes—even more beguiling up close—as they regard him with a challenge. His gaze slips down to Oswald’s lips before snapping back up just as quickly.

“Jim,” he tells him, reeling from the overwhelming intensity of the moment. It’s surreal, all of it, and he half wonders if he fell asleep at his desk again. If this isn’t all some dream concocted by his loneliness.

“Jim. Short for James.” Oswald hums, eyes studying his face, before he adds, “It suits you.” He leans forward then, so that they’re noses bump gently. “Kiss me, James.” 

It’s the most natural inclination, closing the slight distance between them. Jim’s eyes slip shut at the contact, the soft press of Oswald’s lips is so sweetly perfect in the way they fit against his own. Jim whimpers, pressing closer as his heart thunders in his ears, and he gently prods along the seam of Oswald’s mouth with the tip of his tongue, begging entry as he hands slide lower.

He hears it first, the unmistakable ‘slinkt’ of a switchblade, just before he feels it press against the jugular of his neck. And he should have expected that, should have seen it coming. He leans back as Oswald presses the blade against his flesh, and it hurts—more than it should—because there’s victory in those eyes, and if they’d been cold before, they’re positively glacial in triumph as Oswald carelessly drops his tumbler of scotch to the floor and snatches the gun from Jim’s holster to toss it across the room.

“I hope that was as enjoyable for you as it was for me,” Oswald taunts.

Jim feels sickness settle in his stomach, a lump of shame forming in his throat. Thirty-six years he’s gone without once acting on these secret desires. And how many times has he thought: well, if someone offers, that’s different? But no one ever has. Not until today, and he caved to it so easily, despite the inherent dangers of the circumstances. Oswald read him like an open book, and how fucking desperate is he—practically gagging for it—that he lets himself get sapped by some goddamned badger8?

It’s infuriating, but Jim can’t summon his anger, let alone the cutting words he’d like to inflict. Instead, all he feels is exposed—tricked into showing his true colors just so he could hang himself by them. Even now, with a blade to his throat, nothing stings more than Oswald’s callous words, the glaring indifference of his eyes. For one perfect moment, Jim had been granted complete acceptance and, even if he survives what comes next, he knows he’s never going to experience that bone-deep relief that came with it ever again.

It’s this truth that finally seizes his chest, sharp pain squeezing his heart, lancing out to pierce his lungs. Mournful tears track down his face, salt in the wound of his already massive shame, as he clenches his jaw. Jim can’t bear it, doesn’t want to see Oswald curl his nose in disgust, but he refuses to look away. He’s spent his whole life hiding part of himself from the rest of the world, but it’s out there now, and this man has seen it. Jim won’t apologize for it, much as it hurts to have it thrown in his face this way.

It isn’t disgust that filters into Oswald’s expression, rather it’s a donning realization of some kind. It thaws the edges of his gaze, his head tilting sideways as he appears to contemplate Jim’s humiliation. The knife stays at Jim’s neck, but Oswald no longer looks triumphant.

“You’ve been entirely honest with me, haven’t you?” he asks. “You weren’t just humoring me to gain some upper hand.”

Is that what he thought? Jim shakes his head, swallows when the tip of the knife digs in slightly. Oswald blinks, eyes widening as they shift to the place where the switch meets Jim’s throat, as if he’d forgotten it entirely. He sucks in a breath, retracts the blade and chunks it across the room to land within the same vicinity as Jim’s service pistol. He turns back to Jim, hands now clasped in his lap, and his eyes are no longer cold, filled instead with remorse. The bravado in which he’s been cloaked from the moment Jim laid eyes upon him evaporates suddenly, and he sits before Jim like a wilted flower.

His voice trembles as he speaks; uttering, perhaps, the first genuine sentiments he’s shared all evening. “This city is…” Oswald begins, shaking his head before meeting Jim’s gaze. “You’re so very sweet, aren’t you?” he says instead, “Forgive me for thinking you insincere and treating you so unkindly.”

 Oswald sniffs, wipes at the growing moisture that glistens in his eyes. It would be easy to take advantage of this unguarded moment. Jim could drag him from his chair by that ankle, shove his face into the floor and cuff him. Revel in the reversal of indignities, and it’s tempting, but Oswald’s next words give his better judgement pause.

“I’ve no shortage of money,” he says, “and an influence that grows by the day, but kindness…” he reaches up carefully, gently cupping Jim’s face to swipe a thumb along his cheekbone, “…sweetness. Those are in short supply indeed.”

Oswald gazes at him longingly for indiscernible moments before his lips press together in a contrite line, eyes finally averting to his lap. Jim catches his hand as Oswald moves to withdraw it, runs his thumb across its open palm. He isn’t sure what possesses him, knows it’s ridiculous even as he suggests it, but the plea won’t be contained. 

“Can’t we…” he licks his lips and gives up his internal struggle over right and wrong, should versus shouldn’t, with a sigh. “We could pretend, for a while, couldn’t we?” he asks, face heating as he lifts his eyes to meet Oswald’s startled gaze. “That the world outside doesn’t exist?”

Oswald is nodding, and it’s all the encouragement Jim needs to swoop in and kiss him a second time, which—the first one was pleasant enough, but this—this is far more authentic. There’s no collected reserve, no rigidity to his spine as Oswald opens his mouth to Jim’s prodding tongue, moans wantonly down his throat. Desperate fingers bury themselves into Jim’s hair, cling to his shoulders, drag blunt nails down his neck.

Jim slips his hands beneath Oswald’s back side, yanks him to the very edge of the chair so he can feel the way he writhes in need. There’s no space between them, not a tremble or a shudder that goes unnoticed or unanswered in equal measure. It’s better than he ever imagined, being held firmly—unable to escape unless his lover allows it—and Jim thrills at the rough edge to every touch. He can feel the shape of Oswald’s desire pressed firmly against his abdomen, tangible proof of how badly he is wanted in return.

It drives his own want higher, makes him dizzy with it until all he knows is desire. And Jim is greedy with it, wants to experience every inch of Oswald’s flesh—feeling isn’t nearly enough, not by half. Jim wants to breathe him in, remember his [scent](https://www.mrporter.com/en-au/mens/penhaligons/blenheim-bouquet-eau-de-toilette--100ml/844659?cm_mmc=ProductSearchPLA-_-AU-_Fragrance-Penhaligon%27s-Google&ignoreRedirect=true&ppv=2&cm_mmc=LinkshareUS-_-TnL5HPStwNw-_-GoogleAU--c-_-MRPORTER-INTL-AU-PLA-_-AU_GS_FW16_Sale_High--Sale-_-__pla-41477300408_APAC&gclid=CIagzv2sttECFRUHvAodr7sPww&ranMID=36592&ranEAID=TnL5HPStwNw&ranSiteID=TnL5HPStwNw&Skimlinks.com&siteID=TnL5HPStwNw-qdsIIzop5w22vRdfG_BF0w&dclid=CJfA763K290CFQ1RAQodeKcC8w)—lemon and lavender, black pepper and pine—when he’s alone in his apartment, touching himself to the memory of this.

He drags his mouth away from Oswald’s lips, both of them panting for air as Jim sets out to taste the rest of him. Oswald collapses back against the chair, bringing Jim with him, hands clutching his neck and shoulders desperate to pull him closer. God, the sounds he makes, the things he says—Jim soaks those up as well.

“Oh, please,” Oswald begs. “Don’t stop—don’t ever stop…please—”

Jim pulls away, only far enough to yank Oswald’s robe open and frantically work the rest of those buttons free. “Tell me what to do,” he says, voice little more than a ragged whisper. “Tell me how to please you.”

 The fingers in his hair loosen their hold slightly, shift forward to rake Jim’s bangs from his forehead as he sucks a mark into the pale skin at Oswald’s collar.

“You already please me,” he says gently. “But if you’re uncertain, touch me as you would yourself.”

Jim takes this directive to heart, sucks bruises across Oswald’s chest, licks a path down his stomach until he reaches the flushed head of his cock, peeking out from its confines in a bid for attention. He crouches down further, wedges his shoulder beneath Oswald’s knee so that it causes his legs to fall open just that much further, enough that he can fit.  

Jim swipes his tongue along the tip of it, Oswald crying out above him, one of his hands lifting from Jim’s hair to the arm of chair, fingers gripping it so tightly that the knuckles are white with the strain. Jim can feel him trembling with the effort it takes to refrain from thrusting upward. He’s never had a cock in his mouth, but he’s thought about it, sometimes while his own was being serviced. It’s arousing—the smell, the taste, the act of being penetrated—almost used.

It’s difficult to explain, but there’s a certain power in it, having another man so at his mercy. Jim groans at the thought, his own cock throbbing painfully with need. Oswald stills beneath him, and he pushes at Jim’s shoulders.

“Th-the bedroom,” he says, and Jim doesn’t hesitate; pushes to his feet, and pulls Oswald up after.

He’s led through an antechamber just off the main room of what Jim now sees is richly furnished apartment. They pass a small, but serviceable kitchen before entering a large bedroom with an en suite bathroom just visible from the door. Jim’s eyes don’t wander for long, however, drawn back to Oswald when he begins working his tie loose.

Jim gets with the picture, helps Oswald divest him of his clothing until he’s in naught but his underwear. It’s of the same style as Oswald’s, but not nearly the same quality. There’s no pattern or dyes, utilitarian in function and design, but Oswald runs his fingers over the rough cotton with a reverence fit for silk.

Jim pushes the robe from Oswald’s shoulders, runs hands up along his spine, pulls him close. There’s a plethora of freckles that run along his shoulders, Jim can see now, and he bends forward to add his own mark to their chaotic beauty. Oswald catches one of his wandering hands, guides it to the flat button holding the back flap closed. Jim takes the hint, works it open and reaches inside to feel the warm, smooth curve of his backside.  

  

The bed is just off to their right, and Jim guides them there by sheer force of will, else he’d be having Oswald on the floor. There’s a moment, where their eyes catch, both of them panting at the bedside as they work themselves free of their underclothes. A moment that acknowledges and accepts what each of them are—Oswald is the Penguin, there’s a not a doubt in his mind, and Jim is the cop tasked to seek the evidence that will one day bring him to justice. And then it passes, leaving them alone with naught but skin and passion between them.

Oswald climbs into his lavish bed, and Jim eagerly follows, fitting himself in the cradle of his legs. Their lips meet in another kiss, and then they’re moving— skin to skin—cocks dragging between their bellies. And it’s good, the closeness, the inherent sexuality, but not nearly wet enough, until Oswald reaches over, pulls a container from the the nearby table drawer.

Petroleum.

“May I?” Jim asks, holding a hand out for the opened canister.

“Such manners!” Oswald teases, but hands it over. “I bet the all the pretty young flappers adore you, don’t they, Detective Gordon?”

Jim pauses, lays the jelly next Oswald’s hip before he leans up and steals a kiss. “For hypothetical women—you sound mighty jealous of ‘em.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” Oswald huffs, averts his eyes.

“You, I’d think,” Jim replies easily, mouth playing at one of Oswald’s dusky nipples. “You’re the one that’s got me.”

Oswald smiles at him fondly. “I suppose. For a time.”

Jim hums, distracts Oswald from that train of thought—so similar to his own—by wrapping a warm, slippery hand around his cock. He gets him wet, then applies the lubricant to himself before trying to hold them together in a mimicry of how Jim might do this by himself. It’s a bit of a handful, but he manages it, pistons his hips so that he thrusts into his own fist, dragging his cock along Oswald’s over, and over.

He can’t tear his eyes away, entranced by the sight of their bodies moving together. Can’t stop thinking of all the other ways there must be for men to love each other. Wonders what Oswald must know of it; fervently hopes there will be a chance to find out. The thought jolts through him, the very idea of more, and Jim looks up to find Oswald watching him.

His eyes are alight with a heat that further stokes Jim’s own fire—a stark contrast from the distant cold of earlier. He looks at Jim with such heady desire, mouth slightly parted and Jim leans in to lick inside. Oswald wraps his arms around his neck, groaning into his mouth. Jim falls into him, desperate to close every gap between them. It’s better this time, both of them wet and Oswald’s legs wrapped around his hips.

Jim wants to feel every inch of him, wonders what it must be like inside him—hotter, tighter. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of Oswald’s hips, and he doesn’t complain, doesn’t tell Jim he’s being too rough, or ask him to slow down. Instead, he gives back just fiercely, hands gripping Jim’s backside and urging him on, sinking his teeth into Jim’s shoulder. It’s intense. Visceral.

“Fuck!” Jim swears, cock pulsing between them as he comes, but he can’t stop. Doesn’t ever want to stop, ruts against Oswald until he goes still in Jim’s arms, body struck rigid with his own release before falling lax against the pillows and sheets. He doesn’t ask Jim to get off, so he stays where he is, takes ragged breaths where his head is buried in Oswald’s neck.

He can feel their hearts beating together, sweat cooling on his skin to leave goosebumps in its wake. Too, the haze of his arousal begins to lift, old fears creeping slowly in as he lay in the comforting arms of a killer. Jim knows the moment Oswald has recovered himself, deft fingers slipping into his hair, lips pressed against his forehead.

“Are you quite alright?” Oswald asks, once again displaying an unusual perceptiveness.

“I don’t know,” Jim answers honestly.

“Tell me,” he gently encourages.

“I like you,” Jim admits, then sighs as he adds, “but I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t like you…I shouldn’t have—”

“Nonsense,” Oswald dismisses.

“You’re the Penguin,” Jim says, certain.

“So what if I am?” he counters. “I’m a gimp faggot, Jim. How else should I survive?”

Jim doesn’t have an answer for that, well aware of the two-fold discrimination a man like Oswald must have faced coming up. Instead, he lifts himself up, uses his free hand to cup Oswald’s clenched jaw, traces the unhappy lines of his lips with his thumb.

“You’d have made an excellent detective,” Jim tells him.

Oswald snorts, before erupting into giggles at the suggestion. Jim kisses his smile, and Oswald sighs, reaches up to fiddle with his hair yet again.

“What are you doing in this horrible city?” Oswald asks, eyes haunted. “Its sickness will infect you—it gets into all of us eventually. Steals the warmth right from our bones.”

Jim wishes he didn’t see the truth in Oswald’s words, but there is something uniquely dark about their city. Jim doesn’t know what it is, but he refuses to run from it, is determined to outlast its influence. He reaches down to claps one of Oswald’s hands, raises their entwined fingers to his lips to press a solemn kiss along the seam.

“Maybe we should keep each other warm, then,” he boldly suggests, knowing it won’t be that easy. They’re almost certain to fail, but Jim’s never met anyone like Oswald, who sees so much and feels even more.

“You make me want impossible things, James Gordon,” Oswald says, after a moment. “You’re nothing like I expected.”

Jim hums in agreement, rolls off Oswald and onto his back. He spies a box of tissues9 on a nearby vanity and pushes off the bed and onto his feet to collect it. They clean themselves up in companionable silence, but Jim hesitates as he picks up his underclothes from the floor. It’s ridiculous to feel this way—they’ve only just met—but Jim is reluctant to quit their pretense. He isn’t ready to reenter the waking world just yet.

The clock on the wall says it’s just past midnight already, and Jim sighs.

“It’s late,” he says. “I should go.”

“But you don’t have to,” Oswald replies suggestively, turning onto his side and gesturing the empty space beside him. “You could stay. Very few people know where this place is, and none of them would dare knock on my door without prior invitation.”

Jim licks his lips, brow furrowing as he considers. It’s what he wants, that’s not the question. It’s just…aren’t they simply delaying the inevitable? Wouldn’t it be best if he didn’t overstay his welcome, leave things on this bittersweet note?

“Why not keep each other warm for a little while longer?” Oswald asks, and Jim can see in his eyes the tiniest speck of diminishing hope, and it’s this that makes the decision. He isn’t alone in feeling this unprecedented connection between them, and it isn’t ideal for a cop to feel this way about a man like Oswald, but it’s equally dangerous for the man Jim is climbing into bed with.

Those facts don’t make it feel any less right, however, when Oswald’s arms wrap around him, warm breath playing against the back of Jim’s neck. Doesn’t make it any easier to turn his back on the inherent acceptance he’s somehow found in the man’s company. Maybe he can’t pretend that it’s moral, or that he hasn’t been compromised by what’s transpired between them, but Jim doesn’t want to pretend. He wants it to be real, and Oswald is right. Life in Gotham is cold, even in the summer time. But here?

Here, there’s warmth.

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Muggs: Men, dumb ones  
> 2\. Upstage: High-Class, 2aGimp: Person that walks with a pronounced limp 2b Kale: money  
> 3\. Revenuer: Federal Agent  
> 4\. Rubes: Another way of saying Rueben, which means hick or hillbilly  
> 5\. Keen: Appealing  
> 6\. Button: Police Badge  
> 7\. Faggot: I’m so sorry, but the term became popular in the 20s, and so I went with the era-specific term. This would be the coarse language tag at the top.  
> 8\. Badger: Person, typically a woman, that ensnares a man into a compromising position for personal gain.  
> 9\. Kimberly-Clark (Kleenex) invented tissues as we know them today in 1924. This fic takes place in an unspecified year in that decade. So, I found it fitting to include them here.
> 
> As always, if you enjoyed the story, I'd love to hear from you in the form of a kudo or especially a comment! Feedback feeds the muse <3 And gives me something to look forward to when I get back from my weekend away!


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